A year ago, as I've mentioned in previous posts, my thinking was quite different. I've never been suicidal, but I can't say I worried too much about staying alive. It's not like I engaged in intentionally dangerous behaviors or impulses. I didn't play in traffic or jump, parachuteless out of airplanes or off buildings. I didn't play on tight ropes. In fact, besides those impulsive adolescent years and perhaps more than my fair share of risky drunken shenanigans, I've taken pretty good care of myself. I never invited death or pain, but I also didn't despair at the possibility of getting some kind of terminal illness or losing my life (painlessly?) in some sort of accident. Now, as I've previously mentioned, my perspective has changed. I have a son and he has given me new life. I love my husband and my friends and family, but there's just something different with my Critter. There's the sense that not only does he need me, and his father needs me; but there's also this shiny new sense of excitement and curiosity that comes with the overwhelming love for my child. I WANT and APPRECIATE this life. That's not to say I believe people who are depressed or otherwise struggling should put all of the emotional weight of their lives on their children! Our children are not here to save us from ourselves. That's not fair to the kid and it will only cause problems for everyone down the line. All I'm saying is that my life feels more complete. More exciting with more potential for both joy and heartbreak and adventure and so much learning. My baby boy doesn't have to carry the weight of being my life, in its entirety. He simply and beautifully enhances and brings a new light to every nook of it. He makes life luscious and full and too big to take for granted. He brings zest to passing go.
And with all that said, I got a call from my nurse midwife yesterday. My post-baby pap smear came back abnormal. Uh, what?? I tested positive for high risk (read: possible could lead to cancer) HPV. Luckily, I've already done my research, so I haven't freaked out. Most of the time, people's immune systems crush the little bugger virus before any damage is done; but then, again, there's the possibility it won't. In that case, first step is still not to freak out. HPV does not equal cancer. It just increases the likelihood that I could get cancer. So, second step is to get check for pre-cancerous (or cancerous, I suppose) cells. Pre-cancerous get scraped, I get a follow up to make sure they don't come back, and done. Poof. Worry gone. Back to routine care o' the business downstairs. I guess I'm not really worried about step three. Step three assumes steps 1 and 2 don't work, and that seems unlikely.
It does make me think in my new way about mortality. BC (Before Critter), I don't know that I would have sought treatment in the event of a necessary third step. I figured (knowing full well that I might very well change my mind given the reality of imminent death) that I might just let the cancer take me. My step 3 would have been about finding peace within my community, tying up emotional and logistical loose ends, and securing palliative care for the pain. I would have peaced-out of this joint, figuring it was just my time. But now.... I have my Critter. My little love. Now things have changed. Now I would fight it. I would get treatment. I would hold onto the very last shreds of my life to watch him along his journey for as long as possible. And that's it. Life is harder, more fulfilling, and wonderful; and I would no longer fold so easily to hand it in.... I don't know how to end this entry. So how about:
FUCK YEAH. I'm a MOM!
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